


I'll nurse this tender ache (so you don't have to)

by neverweremine



Category: Ultimate Spider-Man (Cartoon 2012)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mentions of Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24349006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverweremine/pseuds/neverweremine
Summary: Everyone stared as his mouth floundered for an answer. This… This was what he'd been afraid of.Swish.Everyone turned as the doors opened and in came a frantic-looking Aunt May, MJ, and Harry. Scratch that./This/ was what he'd been afraid of.
Relationships: Harry Osborn/Peter Parker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 130





	I'll nurse this tender ache (so you don't have to)

"I'm late," Peter chanted as he stumbled up the driveway, "I'm late, I'm late, I'm late."

"You're late," May said as she answered the door. "Don't tell me you don't have time to visit your old Aunt May anymore?"

"One," Peter counted as he ducked into the home he grew up in, "I always have time for you. Two, you're not that old. And three, Flash still doesn't know how to write a lesson plan."

May closed the door behind him and ushered him to the couch. "And here I thought a bank robbery or a super-villain held you."

"Both, actually. Trapster's stubborn." He grinned, but the grin quickly devolved into a short coughing fit.

"Water?" she asked.

"Yes, please."

He took the proffered water with a grateful nod and drank, but even after, his throat still tickled. Ugh. It would be typical Parker luck that he'd come down with something on his one day off. He set the empty glass on the table.

"So," she said as settled in next to him, "did you see the fresh flowers I planted? Aren't the blossoms coming along nicely?"

"No, I was too in a hurry to see — Wait, did you say blossoms? Is it spring already?"

"Peter," Aunt May said, her voice thick with fond exasperation, "it's been spring for a week now. Where have you been?"

He rubbed at his throat — at the faint itch lodged under his Adam's apple. He stared out the window. Tulips brushed against the glass plane, blooming from the flowerbed.

"Huh."

.

"Hey, Doc, you don't mind if I borrow this, do you?"

Doctor Connors glanced up from his microscope. Peter stood by a simple chemistry set, a centrifuge from another table laid in the center. He pressed his eyes back to the lenses. "Go ahead. Are you making more web fluid?"

"No. Weed killers."

Doctor Connors shot him a confused glance but didn't question him.

.

The coughing was getting worse but his medicine wouldn't be ready for a while yet. So in the meantime, he had to suffer the consequences.

"Whoa. Back it, Webhead." Sam made an X with his arms. "I remember the last time you started coughing and sniffling. No, thank you." He ducked behind Luke, who drew his lunch tray close to his chest. They were in the cafeteria, and while Peter was glad to be having a rare lunch with his original team, he'd be more glad if they stopped staring at him like he was a ticking time bomb.

"I'm not sick," Peter stated. "My throat's just... dry."

"Water?" Danny offered. He nudged the bottle across the table as if he, too, did not want to face the wrath of Parker germs.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Guys, I'm serious. It's fine. _I'm_ fine; fit as a horse."

Which, of course, was when his throat began tickling so bad — like itching powder had been poured down his mouth — that he couldn't help but cough into his elbow. In all the coughing, something solid slipped onto his tongue, but he bit it before it could escape. His coughing petered off, short and harsh and a little wet, and when he drew his face from his elbow, it was to an empty table. His so-called friends circled him, their lunch trays lifted high above their heads. Even the other SHIELD agents were looking at him funny.

He let the solid bit of phlegm between his teeth fall back onto his tongue and swiped it to his cheek.

"Only a little cough," he insisted to no avail.

"It's nothing against you," Ava reassured as she guided the others to another empty table, "but I am _not_ getting sick because of you again."

And with that, Peter was alone. "Well, great. Pleasant lunch, team."

He sighed and looked at his plate; at least he'd been mostly finished. After dumping his stray, Peter headed to the restroom where he skipped the stalls and urinals and headed straight for the trash can. With his tongue, he fished out the source of his troubles, swiping his cheek until it lay flat on his taste buds, small and velvety. He pinched the innocuous-looking petal from his mouth; the color a soft, baby pink.

"Still?"

His head shot up. Agent Venom — Flash — stood at the doorway, his enormous arms crossed over his barrel chest. It was odd; out of all of them, Flash wore his suit most often when his was no doubt the easiest to get out of. Peter flicked the wet petal off his finger and watched as it landed into the trash. He lifted his foot and the garbage can lid closed with a thump.

"Yeah."

Despite everything they'd been through — the years that had passed since Then and Now — he almost expected something to happen as he passed his teammate on the way out. Nothing did, but the hair on the nape of his neck still stood on end as he walked away.

.

"Hey, get back here!"

"Leap. Leap. Leap."

It should've been nothing. Batroc was a D-list villain, and while Spider-Man wasn't an Avenger, he could definitely handle D-list villains. The problem was his coughing. It was hard to web-swing while his eyes were watering from a fiery throat, and it was difficult keeping track of leaping bank robbers while coughing. He perched himself on a water tower and lifted his mask up to his nose. Masks: useful for hiding secret identities, but not so breathable.

He only meant to collect his breath but then he was coughing and then Batroc the Cheater thought it'd be a marvelous time for an ambush attack which — hey, he was hacking a lung over here! — and then he had to dodge leap attacks while trying not to spit petals everywhere — Gah, villains. So inconsiderate nowadays.

"Wow, someone's off their game," White Tiger commented as she watched from atop a street light. They had ended up in an alley somehow, and Peter grunted as a bag of stolen money collided with his back. Ow. He couldn't pinpoint when White Tiger got there and decided to participate in 'Watch Peter Struggle Hour', but he didn't care.

"A little help?" he asked as he did a flip to avoid a kick to the jaw.

"With Batroc?" asked Powerman. When did he get here? Was everyone here, watching the great, ultimate Spider-Man struggle with a D-lister? Ugh. Fine, he could take care of this. Ignoring the itch in his throat, he ran past Powerman with Batroc's footsteps chasing after him. He slowed — had to time it right — and when Batroc come close enough, he rushed to the light post White Tiger sat on. Run, leap, grab, swing, BAM.

One Batroc the Leaper out for the count.

"Took you long enough," White Tiger huffed as she landed next to him; graceful and benevolent as always. He had a quip on the ready, but his genius took a backseat as another coughing fit racked him. Petals were trying to creep their way into his mouth. His throat convulsed as he swallowed, but he did it, he pushed it back down, and when his fit finished it was to a tense silence and a trademarked Luke Cage Power-Frown.

"What's — What's up, guys? Crazy bug going around, am I right?"

"Spider-Man…" The hand that landed on his shoulder wasn't reassuring. "You need to go to the hospital."

"What? For a little cough? I — " He tried to back away from Powerman's hand, but while Luke was gentle, he was also very firm. Another hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed. Oh no. While Peter may have enhanced spider strength, Luke had his own superhuman strength and copious arm wrestling tournaments had already decided that spider strength didn't stand a chance.

"Pete," White Tiger said. Not Spider-Man but _Pete_ , which was another big red sign, "you're coughing up blood. You need medical attention."

And oh, would you look at that? He'd forgotten to redo his mask and there was a distinct shade of red on his hands — and now that he thought about it, his mouth was tasting metallic-y. Well, monkey feathers.

"It's not what it looks like," he tugged down his mask. "I'm fine. Perfectly healthy. Don't need a hospital or anything — " He tried to duck under Powerman's hands, but he was holding firm and mission abort. Game over. _Escape, escape, escape_ —

White Tiger and Powerman shared a glance. They nodded. Powerman hauled him into a fireman's carry and White Tiger led the way as she opened a line on her communicator. "Doc Connors?" She asked as he thumped his fists on Luke's invulnerable chest. "Yeah, can you prep the med-bay? Spider-Man's injured. We don't know the extent, but he's coughing up blood, and he's delusional. High probability of concussion."

"I'm fine!" He shouted as they walked out of the alley. Passersby looked and pointed.

Luke readjusted his grip with a shrug of his massive shoulders. "Man, stop squirming. This is for your own good."

.

By the time they entered the Triskelion, Peter had accepted his fate - (and had his arms bound by webbing and handcuffs linking his ankles together, but that's another, longer story). Still, acceptance of fate or not, having a gaggle of teen superheroes waiting for him at the door didn't make the humiliation any easier to swallow.

"Is he okay?" Miles asked as he trailed after them.

"I'm fine," he groaned aloud. To Luke, he said, "You know you don't have to carry me all the way to the medical ward, right?"

Luke, who might have gained bruises from Peter's various escape attempts if his skin weren't bullet-proof dense, only raised a brow from beneath his black shades. "Will you stay if I let you go?"

"You handcuffed my ankles. I am webbed with my own web fluid. How will I escape?"

"How will you walk?"

"... I'll hop."

"We should've webbed your mouth shut," Ava muttered.

"What happened out there?" Amadeus asked. "Was it Dock Ock? Hydra? The Collector?"

"Batroc the Leaper," Ava answered.

A snort. He glared at Sam from his height advantage on Luke's shoulder, but, as if sensing the glare and the silent but smug height comparison, Sam used his magic helmet powers to float next to them at a higher height. Jerk.

"For your guys' information, I handled Batroc fine. This is totally unrelated and I am fine — _aaaaand_ we're still headed towards the med-bay."

Peter closed his eyes to shield himself from his teammates' worried gazes and the curious faces of passing agents. Unlike the rest of the team, Doc Connors was a reasonable guy. If he could explain to him and show him how he had it handled, everything would turn back to normal. Yup, no problems here. Normal, here we come. He took a deep breath as the medical bay's doors swished open.

Doc Connors' measured voice was the needed eye in the storm. "Put him over there, please."

Luke set him on the prepared patient's chair. The doc took one glance at him, webbed and cuffed, and glanced at his captors. "Tried to escape?"

"Five different times," Ava informed him.

Peter wiggled against his bonds to no avail. "I'm fine."

They ignored him. "Well, I will need these webs removed. The ankle cuffs can stay."

"Gladly." White Tiger approached him with her claws out and Peter went very, very still as she swiped against his chest. The webs fell away. Peter stretched his arms. On one hand: he was proud of himself for making such strong webs. Talk about genius chemistry, Parker. On the other: damn him and his superior intellect. Connors tapped his mask, and he pulled it off.

"Look, Doc —" he glanced at the stethoscope in the doctor's hands, and then to the lingering crowd. "A little privacy, please?"

It was Danny who spoke up, "If we are to work and exist as a team, then we must all bear the knowledge of suffering equally."

"That's a great saying and everything, Dan, but I'm pretty sure what you're suggesting is illegal. There's a Geneva convention or something — something about patient confidentiality." His eyes alighted on Flash, who stood at the back of the little party of privacy invaders. He waved his arm at him. "Flash, you know what's up; tell them I'm healthy. No check-up required."

"He's fine," Flash droned in the most unenthusiastic way possible. Jeez, hard sell.

"See?" He lifted himself into a sitting position, ready to hop out of there if he had to. "I'm fine, fit as a fiddle. This is unnecessary."

"Last I checked, Flash doesn't have a medical degree. I do." Doc Connors forced him still and pressed the stethoscope to his chest. "Now breathe deeply for me." Despite his misgivings, Peter did as told.

"Breathe out slowly."

He could _feel_ the flowers rattling on his exhale.

"This isn't good." Doc grimaced. "There's something in your lungs — obstructions that shouldn't be there. We'll need some imaging tools for this."

"That's. Not. Necessary," repeated Peter.

"And why not?" asked Ben — and god, when did he even get here?

"When did you even get here?"

Ben ignored him as everyone else did, which was tomfoolery because last time he checked he was the team leader. Had the most seniority and everything.

"You keep saying you're okay and you have it handled like you know everything that's going on but you won't _say_ what's going on. Spill it, Parker, why are we the ones acting like it's the end of the world when you're the one laid up in the medical chair?"

"Way to shove me under the bus," Peter muttered. He raised his hands under the brunt of baleful glares. "Okay, fine. The truth is… The truth is…"

His heart hammered in his chest and he felt a familiar itching crawl up his throat. Instead of swallowing it, he urged it forward.

"What... is that?" Ben asked as Peter scraped the petal off his tongue.

"Hanahaki disease," Connors knelt until he was eye level with the purple and white petal dotted with bits of red. "Coughing blood, obstructions in your lungs — Peter, this is very serious. You might be on late-stage two or early stage three of — "

"Yeah, yeah. I understand. Look, it's fine. I have medicine for this —

"The only known cure to Hanahaki is to either confess or get surgery — "

"Yeah, that would be the case if I had normal human physiology but seeing as I am _Spider_ -Man — "

"All right," Ben crossed his arms, "any of you geniuses wanna fill me in? What's Hanahaki disease?"

The room fell silent.

"What? Is it serious? Is it contagious? Why's everyone looking at me funny?"

"I guess Doc Ock didn't teach you about rare diseases," Peter stated.

"Or daytime soap operas." Miles said, "C'mon, Hanahaki is, like, the most classic soap opera trope. My mom watches that stuff all the time. Person A falls in love with Person B. They develop Hanahaki. They're afraid Person B will find out and reject them so they keep it a secret, then they die from the inside — "

" _Die from the inside_?"

"Oh god," Peter's eyes widened, "am I living out a daytime soap opera cliche? Has my life spiraled that far?"

"Well, you do have the evil — " At Ben's scowl, Miles hastily corrected, " — _formerly_ evil clone and Hanahaki; so yeah. Yeah, it has."

Peter slapped his hands to his face and groaned.

"Back up," said Ben, "what is Hanahaki, exactly?"

"Hanahaki," oh no, Amadeus was using his _lecture_ voice, "is the popular term for a disease known scientifically as pulmoflorosis. It's a disease of which little is known about, but it seems to stem from the chemicals present while experiencing unrequited love. During pulmoflorosis, the unrequited's lungs grow flowers until it blocks their airways and they either die from suffocation or other complications: punctured lungs, anemic reactions due to blood loss, et cetera. The only known cure for pulmoflorosis is a removal of the flowers and roots via surgery or for the unrequited to confess their love and have it returned."

"Typically," Amadeus continued, "there are three stages to the disease. Stage one's symptoms include a slight cough. Stage two includes increased coughing and an intermediate expelling of petals. Stage three is when hemoptysis — or coughing up blood — happens, snowballing into a daily expulsion of petals, a struggle to breathe, and, eventually, death. To get from stage to stage varies, but commonly it takes a few months. Peter, how long have you — ?"

It wasn't Peter that answered, but Flash. "Since sophomore year."

"Does _anyone_ respect patient confidentiality here?"

"He's had that thing since sophomore year," Flash repeated.

"And I'm still fine! So can we move along now?"

"That's impossible. I've never heard of Hanahaki lasting that long. It must be the half-spider physiology…" Amadeus began muttering to himself, and Peter had a distinct image of him getting encased in a cell slide and trapped under a large microscope. He shuddered and ripped the ankle cuffs off his feet. The metal came apart as if Play-Doh in his hands.

"Not impossible. Very possible. Look, I'll tell you everything."

And so he did. He spoke of sophomore year and the panic of his little cold transforming into a disease, the way his body doubled over as it got worse and worse, the porcelain sink splashed with blood and clogged with petals, the eventual resignation in the casual perusal of medical brochures — and then: the spider bite. The next day, waking up after vomiting his airways clear and his Hanahaki gone. Cured. Or so he thought. Next spring brought flowers anew, but this time he'd been prepared.

"So yeah, it's never _gone_ -gone, only dormant, but I've made a chemical so the flowers won't disturb me until next spring. Usually, I make it before spring starts, but I guess I was a little late this year."

"Huh." Someone said into the ensuing silence, which could describe Peter's entire week; a constant state of, 'huh'.

"And by 'was a little late' you mean you forgot," Sam said. He was still floating. Jerk.

"Yeah. So that answers all that. I am fine. I am healthy. So I'll get — "

"Oh, no, no, no," Ava said, one sharp claw pointing very near to Peter's shoulder, "There's still one question left: Hanahaki doesn't start for any old reason. Who's the lucky person?"

Everyone stared as his mouth floundered for an answer. This…

This was what he'd been afraid of.

Swish.

Everyone turned as the doors opened and in came a frantic-looking Aunt May, MJ, and Harry. Scratch that.

 _This_ was what he'd been afraid of.

.

The day passed in a daze. He had a vague recollection of guiding everyone to his chem station where his concoction was coming together while glaring at Danny — good intentions or not; you don't call people's family and friends when it's _handled_ — and then he was explaining the science of it, and answering Amadeus' and Connors' questions, but it was distant. Like someone else had been doing the legwork while he was freaking out in his mind.

They knew. _He_ knew. How was he going to face him now?

.

Despite his reassurances, they had put him on desk duty until they deemed him recovered, which, with the medicine still in the centrifuge and promises of a thorough check-up by Doc Connors — could mean filing paperwork nonstop for weeks. Yet it wasn't so dreadful. Ever since the giant breach in patient confidentiality, Peter had gotten weird stares underlying questions that he didn't have the energy to answer; with the stacks of paperwork, he at least had the valid excuse of being busy while also having the luxury of an office to hide in.

That would be: an office to hide in if people respected his boundaries and his thin attempts at privacy in the first place.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Peter gave a disapproving stare over the bridge of his nonexistent glasses, "you're not allowed in here. Also, I could've sworn I locked the doors." He should've known this was coming. He should've hidden better. Masking his uneasiness, Peter squared his shoulders and dropped the act. "MJ? What are you doing here?"

"Well, seeing as how my best friend has been giving me the run-around the past few days, I thought I'd pay him a visit."

"I've been busy!" Peter stated, gesturing to the stacks that towered over him. "I get it, you want to ask questions — "

"Question," she stressed. "Singular." She planted her butt on his desk and glared, her long red hair slipping past her eyes, "When are you finally going to tell Harry you like him?"

The noise that escaped his mouth wasn't a stammer or a squeak, but something between. He slammed his hands on the desk, leaned back, and proceeded to not choke on his tongue. "What? What are you — that's so — I mean, what are you even saying? Do you hear yourself? How can I — ?"

MJ gave him a Look, and his mouth clicked shut. He curled in on himself, his hair brushing against the edges of a million papers stacked atop each other. "Is it that obvious?"

"Maybe not to your teammates or to Harry himself, but to me? Yes."

"Great," Peter muttered. He flicked the paperclip chain he'd been making before MJ arrived. "That makes two people who know my deepest, darkest secret."

MJ raised a fine brow. "Two?"

"The other one's Flash. Don't ask me how he found out."

She hummed. To anyone else, it might've sounded like a neutral hum, but Peter took a class in Translation of Mary Jane Watson's Hums, and that was a _judgmental_ hum. "What?" he snapped.

"Oh, nothing. Just wondering when you'll finally escape your soap opera cliche and ask him out already."

"Excuse me," he banged his elbow on the table and held up a stiff pointer finger. "I am not living a soap opera cliche; a soap opera cliche would be if I said nothing and my lungs become so overfilled with flowers that I die. With my concoction, I have _subverted_ that trope, thank you very much."

"But you're still not going to tell him?"

"Yes, because I have cured the not dying part, therefore I do not have to tell him."

"What does that have to do with anything? Why won't you just tell him?"

"I don't know." He threw his hands up in the air so fast that the created winds shuffled a few papers off the top. They floated to the floor, face down, but he didn't give them any attention. "Maybe because he's handsome and my best friend and what if he says 'no' and it becomes awkward, and how do you even explain that? Like:"

"' _Hey, Harry, I know this is weird but I've been crushing on you so hard since sophomore year that I've developed a deadly disease, but don't worry! Everything's fine 'cause I made medicine but I'm still crushing on you and I fantasize about you and your handsome face on the daily and the way the wind blows through your hair and_ — '" He clamped his mouth shut. "I've said too much."

"I think that's perfect."

He shot her a glare. "You would."

She sighed, and the amusement vanished from her face. She reached her hand out between the stacks and grabbed his. He let her. It always surprised him that her hand was smaller than his. They were slimmer, but so much more capable that it felt wrong that his hand was bigger. She rubbed her thumb across his palm, the back of his knuckles, and when she spoke, he followed as he always did.

"Pete, I'm saying this because I know things and I know you. You explained it all flippant-like — how you had a nasty cough for a while and then the spider bite came and then everything was hunky-dory — but you forget I was there. You forget we were both there when you were coughing so bad you looked like you were having an asthma attack. We were there when you had to skip class to sit in the nurse's office and when you kept making excuses to go to the bathroom and when you told us it was a nose bleed even though we couldn't see a speck from your nostrils. We were there and we were worried about you."

"Heck," she continued, "Harry was two seconds away from kidnapping you and sending you to the doctors and I was right there with him. Do you honestly think he'll abandon your friendship because of a little confession? I mean," she smiled and squeezed his hand, "he took the Spider-Man thing pretty well and he hated Spidey for a good few months there."

Mary Jane Watson, as always, had a point. There was a lump in his throat and it wasn't from the petals. "You're right. I know you're right, but it's still…" His sentence tapered into silence. She rolled her eyes and huffed, but smiled.

"I can't force you to confess to Harry and I'm not going to try, but keeping all these things to yourself? That's not good." She released his hand and stood. "And don't forget, you're not so bad yourself. Harry might have the rich, decent-person thing going from him but you're brave and selfless and handsome, in the sweet dorky, 'boy-next-door' sort of way."

"Why, Mary Jane Watson, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're falling — "

"Finish that sentence and I'll use my newfound carnage powers to punch you into next week."

They both laughed, and then she headed for the door. She didn't say goodbye, but then again, she seldom said goodbyes; only told her piece and left. It had annoyed him when they were younger, but he'd gotten used to it and she'd gotten better at remembering, but only sometimes.

"MJ?"

She paused at the threshold and turned around. "Yeah?"

"Thanks. And, uh, if you want to, the others and I are watching soapy Hanahaki-centered rom-coms later. It was Miles' idea. He said we need to 'catch up' Ben on what he's been missing."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, tiger. How about you invite Harry too? He wouldn't enjoy missing out."

Peter groaned. Trust MJ to hammer the point home. "I'll think about it."

.

An inevitable conclusion to Aunt May finding out her only nephew slash surrogate son had a could-be deadly disease — and has had said disease for around four years — was a sit-down at the dinner table. It started as a usual meal in the Parker household; the conversation ranged from work at the Academy to whatever new hobby Aunt May picked up, but as the plates got emptier and emptier, Peter began getting antsier and antsier until he stood right before dessert.

"Look at the time! I think it's time I head back. You understand how these things are; paperwork to file and sign, things to... complete. Is that a police siren? I hear a police siren. Do you hear a police siren?"

"Sit," May commanded, so sit he did. "Now tell me," she said, "is there a reason you hid a deadly disease from your dear Aunt May for four years and didn't tell me? And don't sell me any of that bullshit about not wanting to worry me, I'm not buying."

" _Aunt May_ ," Peter gasped. "Swears at the dinner table? For shame."

"Oh, quit it. You've moved out of the house, and you're a grown adult. A little cursing shouldn't turn your ears red. Now answer the question."

"Well, first off. It's a former deadly disease." He hunched his shoulders under his aunt's unimpressed stare, "Sorry, I would've told you if it got dangerous — "

"You were coughing _blood_ — "

"Well, I was going to tell you soon, but then the spider bite happened, and then Ben… And after, I stopped showing symptoms, and when I did show symptoms again, I already found a cure, and I thought — "

"Thought your aunt wouldn't want to help you?"

Peter sighed. "I screwed up."

"Oh, Peter," she placed her hand over his, and again, he was in awe at how smaller hers was than his. How much weathered but sturdier hers was. "I understand, but next time something like this pops up, I'd rather learn about it from your mouth than having Danny message me, ' _Your nephew is coughing up blood in the med-bay_.' Promise me you'll tell me next time."

"I promise," Peter swore.

"You don't have to do things alone, Peter." She said, before leaning in and placing a kiss on his brow.

"I know. I won't."

When she pulled back, she was smiling, and there was a spark in her eyes. "Good, now that that's settled. Who is it? A girl? A boy? An alien from another dimension? I promise I won't judge, sweetie." Peter slumped in his seat. His cheeks were as red as his costume and he bowed his head to stall her teasing.

" _Aunt May_."

"Is it that Liz girl from math? A teammate of yours? Sam?"

He made a 'bleh' face. "Why would it be Sam?"

"He's a handsome young man and I will not have you say otherwise." She clucked her tongue and pushed his shoulder, "At least tell your aunt _some_ details."

"He's — it's a he — he's handsome and kind and caring." Peter took a large breath. God, he was having this conversation. He coughed and a flower fell on his lap. It was a tiny white flower, no bigger than his thumb with five petals and pink filament sprouting from the middle. He took the flower and put them on his napkin with the rest. "He's very caring."

"Sounds to me like you've scored a big one."

"I didn't score anything. He still doesn't even know that I have feelings for him."

"Well, when you do tell him — and you better tell him, Peter Benjamin Parker — he's invited over whenever."

Despite the serious respiratory disease making hell on his lungs, Peter breathed a sigh of relief. Who could've known revealing the truth, no matter how worrying or heavy or blindsiding, made everything lighter? He didn't know why he'd kept it a secret for so long — they were excellent reasons at the time; he supposed — but he felt detached from those reasons.

When dessert came, it was his favorite: cheesecake.

.

It was Miles' idea, but with their hectic schedules; it was hell to plan. You can't ask bank robbers and super-villains to delay their evil plan to schedule a bad movie marathon, can you? — which was why it surprised him when his office filled up with superheroes telling him movie night was on in ten minutes.

"It's now or never," Miles said. "We finished training, we did our patrols, there are no evil guys for once, so stop doing paperwork and come watch with us."

"Okay, fine, but let me finish this one first before I forget what year it is. Also, if you guys are gonna wait for me, then can you wait outside, I can't concentrate with all your hovering."

"No can do," Sam said, and Peter knew — _knew_ that if he was wearing his helmet, he'd be floating, "See, if we leave, you're gonna finish that paper and think to yourself, 'I can do one more before it's time to get up,' and then you'll do one more and you're gonna concentrate your tiny spider brain so hard that you'll forget our plans and do another one, and by the time we send someone to check-up on you, you're gonna be so knee-deep we'll have to drag you out and then a super-villain will have showed up because you're too busy being a workaholic — "

"Sam, stop distracting him," Ava said.

"Thank you, Av — "

"Mouth shut." Ava mimed zipping her mouth and pointed at his paper. Peter did as told.

He was just finishing the last signature when a voice over his shoulder spoke. "Asters."

"Hm?" He finished the paperwork and placed it atop the 'done' stack.

"Sorry," Danny said, pointing to the nearby napkin overflowing with flower petals. "I noticed; those are aster petals. Red ones, like the ones there, mean 'undying love,' and those little white ones are pear blossoms. They mean lasting friendship."

"Wow," Peter sat ramrod straight in his chair. _That voice_ — "Whoever you're crushing on must be something special."

"Hey, Pete," MJ had a familiar cocky grin as she slung one arm over Harry's shoulder, "I hope you don't mind me inviting Harry to this little shindig. Wouldn't be a bad soap movie watch-a-thon if everyone's not invited, right?"

Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic. "Right," he squeaked. "Well, I'm done, so let's go. C'mon, outta my office, out, out." He shooed everyone else out and made to follow along, but grabbed MJ at the last second and pulled her back.

"What were you thinking?" He hissed once everyone else was out of earshot.

MJ rolled her eyes. "I was thinking that avoiding the problem isn't the way to go about it."

"I wasn't avoiding him," at her stare, he corrected, "Okay, I was avoiding him but that's because I was waiting until after the flowers left. The flowers; they get worse when I'm around him. Now I'm gonna be coughing all throughout the movie and — " He paused as he felt his throat tighten. His breath shuddered, and at once he knew they were blooming. Blooming for Harry.

"Oh, Pete, I'm so sorry. If I had known that's how it worked, I wouldn't have — "

"I mean, it's fine. It's no big deal. I'll be all right — "

"Maybe you can skip?"

"No, I'll be fine. Don't worry about it, MJ."

"What did I say?" Sam said, popping his head through the door, "Someone's gonna have to drag you back. C'mon, Webs, the paperwork can wait."

"Peter's skip — "

" — skipping his way to the rec room. Wouldn't want to miss Ben watching his first soaps, would I?" At Sam's less than impressed stare, Peter waved a hand at him. "I'll be there in a bit, don't get your bucket in a twist."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"You don't make sense."

Sam stuck out his tongue before leaving again. Peter waited until his footsteps faded before turning to MJ. She was frowning. "I'll be fine, really. Sides, if it gets worse, then I'll bow out. The best thing about the truth being in the open is that I'm not exactly lying if I say I'm feeling unwell." He held out his arm to her expectantly. "So?"

She took it with exaggerated reluctance — eye roll, deep-chested groan, and everything — and together they walked to the rec room.

.

She let go once they entered and headed straight for the snacks. The rec room was both big enough to have a foosball table, dangling punching bags, and a fully stocked kitchen, but small enough that there was only one television and a tiny couch that couldn't seat five people, much less eleven. Most were lingering in the kitchen for snacks, leaving the seating open except for Ava who already had her popcorn, Miles and Ben who were on the floor, and Harry —

"Hey, Pete, sit next to — " Harry said, gesturing to the empty seat next to him on the couch, but Peter quick-ducked next to Ben. Loudly, he asked, "So, Ben, ready for 21st-century television?"

If Ben was perturbed by Peter's jerky motions and too-loud voice, he didn't show it. "I've watched TV shows before. You _forced_ me to watch TV shows before."

"Yeah, but that's the quality television we've been feeding you. You're about to experience something altogether different."

"I would argue that Bill Nye the Science Guy is not quality television."

"Well, you'd argue wrong." Peter squashed the urge to sneak a peek behind him. Was Harry sad that Peter didn't seem to hear him? Did he want him to sit next to him? How had he been lately? What did he think of the Hanahaki? ' _Focus, Parker_ ,' he thought as he cleared his throat. _'Can't keep thinking of him or else you'll never survive.'_ "So, Miles," he said, "what do you have prepared for us?"

"Well, I planned on picking out some of my mom's favorites but, uh, this dimension and my dimension have very different soap operas; the only one I could find that I remember is one that my mom hates, the rest are some I found based on their Rotten Tomato scores."

"I hope you threw some bad ones in there."

"Oh, they're all bad ones. First one up is: _Spring is beautiful_. It's a popular 1970s Japanese soap, but the American version is... bad. They did that dub-over thing where they didn't match the words to the lips and Americanized the names and places."

"Perfect." Peter rubbed his hands together in glee.

"Hanahaki," Ben's brow furrowed as he sounded out the word. "It doesn't sound American. Is it Japanese?"

"Got it in one. Hanahaki is a popular story trope in Japan. They base all their soaps on it, and even some non-soaps. A few decades back, movies like this one got shipped over here, and then overnight it wasn't 'the flower disease' or 'pulmoflorosis' but Hanahaki. Weird how things work like that, right?"

"People coughing up blood and dying from suffocation is a popular story trope?"

"Amnesia is a popular trope, and that's just concentrated brain damage," Peter pointed out.

"When are we starting?" Luke asked as he settled in next to them, large popcorn and a glass of indeterminate brown soda in each hand. "I wanna see Danny cringe every time they butcher the Japanese language and Eastern philosophy."

Danny sighed. He had trail mix and a glass of what could-be water next to him. "While I appreciate the mixture of culture and recognize that these movies were the first stepping stones to showcasing Eastern media to Western audiences, I feel like they could've… tried harder."

"You're seething under those polite words, aren't you?"

"Not at all," Danny said. One of his eyes twitched.

"Well," Miles said, "if everyone's got their snacks…" He looked toward Peter who was snackless. Peter glanced back at Harry and the previously empty seat, now filled by MJ. He rushed off to the kitchen with a, "Be right back."

He hummed as his popcorn popped and did a 'too hot' dance when he pulled the bag from the microwave. By the time he got back with his bowl and a drink, the opening credits were ending and someone had dimmed the lights to movie-night levels.

"Hey, you started without me." He pouted as he sat back next to Ben.

"That's what you get for being perpetually late, Parker."

"No one asked you, Alexander."

"Shh," Ava said. "I will tie you two up together again if you bicker throughout this entire thing."

"Again?" Harry asked.

"Don't ask," they said. Peter quiet-coughed into his fist. A petal fell onto his thumb knuckle — thuckle? — and he wiped it onto the napkins he'd brought.

.

"That's unrealistic. The amount of blood she's losing wouldn't be enough to fill a bathtub like that, much less have that consistency," Amadeus said. "It wouldn't be that bright of a red either, more of a mud brown color."

"Dude, it's a movie. It's, like, artistic license." Flash stated, waving his whatever-sports-drink around.

" _Bob_ ," Danny muttered to himself. He had his head in his hands and had been muttering to himself ever since they introduced the characters, which was two minutes into the movie, 'Hello, my name is _Bob Rogers_.'"

"I don't get it, why doesn't she tell him how she feels? If the solution is simple, why go through all this pain?" Ben asked as the woman on screen reached her hand out to the love interest, only for him to turn his back as someone off-screen called his name. She coughed more petals. They fell, floating in a symmetrical pattern before the wind blew them away. Peter knew from experience that at stage three, spit and phlegm and blood clumped together, and didn't float but splatter; air bubbles still trapped in the blood — but then again, it was only a movie.

"Angst reasons, viewership ratings, to extend the time, because some people are just that stupid," MJ listed off, throwing a popcorn off Peter's head at the word, ' _some_ '.

He picked the popcorn from the ground and ate it, much to her visible disgust. Didn't taste half-bad.

Ava, behind him on the couch, nudged him between the shoulder blades with her feet, "Why don't you confess already, you coward?" He turned to give her his best stink eye.

"What did you call me?"

"Coward. Spider-Man's a coward," Sam taunted. He threw a kernel and Peter used his superior reflexes — and okay, a bit of his spider-sense — to catch it in his mouth.

"Oh, like you'd be any better," he said after swallowing butter-salted goodness.

"Excuse me, I'd be way better. I wouldn't chicken out for — what was it — _years_?"

"Oh, that's right," Danny said, finally lifting his hands from his face, "Flash informed us you had the disease since sophomore year. That is a long time to pine for somebody."

" _That's_ an understatement," Luke said.

" _That's_ more than enough time to gather your courage and confess." And because Sam is Sam, and Sam hates him, he chanted. "Con-fess, Con-fess, Con-fess," and because everyone else hated him they started chanting along.

"I can't confess! Stop chanting, I can't confess!"

"Why not?" Ben asked. The movie played on, bad western voice acting forgotten in lieu of staring at Peter. "It'll make things easier, right? The flowers will go away?"

"That's only if the other person reciprocates," Amadeus informed them with his lecture voice again, "In some cases, rejection can lead to accelerated deterioration and create worse effects for the unrequited."

"Thank you," Peter said. "See, I can't — "

"But you're a special case. Once the medication words and your pulmoflorosis becomes dormant, it would be a grand experiment to reveal your feelings and see what happens. If you get accepted, does the disease disappear even if dormant? And if you get rejected — if the pulmoflorosis is dormant, can it even do anything? Once rejected, can you get over your feelings while dormant and next spring have it gone? If you confess at the right time, all I calculate are positives — "

" _Thanks_ , Amadeus. That's enough," Peter gritted.

"So there it is, Bug boy, your only option is to confess," Sam said with a too-pleased grin. "So confess."

Everyone was staring at him. Peter tried to focus on Sam instead of Harry sat a few feet away. "Yeah, but what if…" God, this was so embarrassing, "What if they don't like me, you know?"

Everyone groaned. Sam booed. "What?" He squawked, dodging multiple butter-soaked projectiles. "It's a legitimate question!" But everyone was rolling their eyes as if he'd said something idiotic.

It was Harry who answered, and Pete had no choice but to look at him. His breath caught as he saw Harry alight by the dim glow of the TV screen, highlighting the curves of his face and the lights in his eyes. "Come on, Pete," he said, his teeth flashing in the half-dark and it was so unfair; he shouldn't be this handsome, "this is getting ridiculous. Save us all the two-hour runtime and do it already."

And Peter never could say no to Harry. He opened his mouth and out tumbled —

— flowers.

Someone steadied him as he doubled over himself. He reached for his napkins, but they were overflowing as is, so he stumbled to his feet.

"Peter?" MJ called. She was on her feet — half the room was on their feet as he covered his mouth with his hands and liquid dribbled past his lips. He couldn't talk, he barely had the throat space to breathe, but he gave them an okay sign and pointed to the TV to say they should keep watching before rushing out of the room.

.

"I was dumb."

Peter finished dabbing at the spot of red on his chin. He threw away the coarse brown paper towel and shut off the water. "What?" he croaked. He winced at the way his throat burned. A few more days, he told himself. A few more days until it would finish synthesizing.

Flash leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. He looked uncomfortable; no doubt because for the last two minutes he'd been standing in silence while Peter filled the sink with petals and blood. He had tried to shoo the other away — this was far from his first rodeo — but Flash stayed rooted and Peter had given up waving in favor of trying not to pass out. "Back then, I didn't mean what I said. I was just jealous."

A vague memory floated to the surface of Peter's mind.

.

_"Locker knocker time, Puny Parker."_

_Peter's breath hitched. Another petal made its presence known. He tried to swallow it, but it was like swallowing those icky pink liquid medicines. Leave; he had to leave, but Flash copied each sidestep with ease._

_"Not a good time to do this, Flash," Peter muttered, hugging his books to his chest._

_Flash laughed. "On the contrary, Parker, I think it's the best time." Then, without preamble, he shoved Peter into the lockers._

_He gasped as the combination lock dug into his spine. His glasses had fallen to his mouth with the force of the impact and he squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for the pummeling to continue, but a few seconds passed and nothing came. A few more and Flash's presence faded._

_"Uh." He opened his eyes and adjusted his glasses to find Flash staring at the lone pink and white petal on the floor. He licked his lips. "That's not what it looks like."_

_"Are you…?" Flash's glare didn't soften but it changed. His eyes went wide and his face became pale. Horrified. "Are you sick?" he asked._

_"No," Peter said, except that was when his throat lit itself on fire and he began coughing. Another petal fell and Flash drew back as if he were contagious._

_"You have that thing — that soap opera — Hankii!" Flash exclaimed. The halls were empty, everyone either at the cafeteria or enjoying their lunch break outside, but that didn't mean there couldn't be a few students lingering in the halls. Peter shushed him and drew him close._

_"It's Hanahaki," he mumbled, but Flash ignored him._

_"God, this is hilarious. Little Puny Parker has a crush. Who is it? Is it MJ? She's way out of your league — "_

_"It's not MJ," Peter protested. His palms began to sweat, and his scorched throat became even drier. "Just beat me up and let's get on with our lives, all right?"_

_"No, no, no, this is too good. If it isn't MJ, then it has to be…"_

_"Flash — " Peter pleaded, but he forgot that sometimes begging made it worse. Wicked insight lit green eyes and Peter knew it was over._

_"Ha, I wonder if Osborn knows? Hey, maybe I should tell him."_

_"Wait, no!" Quick hands tugged at the sleeves of a thick letterman jacket. The glare Flash threw his way had him letting go quickly. "Please, don't. I can — I can let you copy off my homework or — or whatever. Please, don't tell Harry."_

_"How gracious of you. You know what? Because of your generosity I won't even pummel you until you get your — " he gestured to the whole of Peter, "whatever, fixed."_

_The relief Peter felt was short-lived. Flash slammed the locker next to them and sneered, "But let's get one thing right, Parker. Osborn? He's not like the rest of us. He doesn't have to be here, but for some stupid reason, he decided to slum it with the plebs but that doesn't. Mean. Anything. You think because you eat lunch at the same table he's gonna be okay with a wimp like you crushin' on him? Dream on."_

_He was trembling, every part of him trembling, as the jock left._

_._

" — and I was wrong, so wrong, and Osborn would be lucky to have you. Anyone would be lucky — "

"It's fine, Flash," Peter put his hand up to stop the tirade before it turned into a soliloquy. "I get it, apology accepted. You're forgiven."

Flash stopped; the hands he was waving around slumping to his sides. "You still won't tell him."

Peter sighed. Instead of giving him an answer, he turned around and said, "Tell me the truth, do I look presentable? Good enough to accept the Nobel Peace Prize?"

"You have a little…" Flash pointed to his teeth and Peter glanced at himself in the mirror. There was blood on them, collecting at the gums. He turned the water back on.

.

By the time they returned to the rec room, the end credits were rolling and everyone was silent. Peter cautiously reclaimed his seat. "So," he said into the ominous quiet. "How did it end? Were there any more bad dub-takes? Did they end up together?

"She died," Ben said. "She confessed too late and ended up dying."

"Oh." Well, that explained the tense atmosphere.

"You're not allowed to die," Luke stated with teary eyes. He reached around Ben to put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "We will force you to confess before you die."

"Medicine, remember? I'll be fine," he patted Luke's arm. Pat. Pat.

"Maybe a Hanahaki marathon wasn't such a good idea," Miles lamented.

Ben, stuck between them, leaned forward and grouched, "Ya think?"

"It's just," the arguably strongest member of their team sniffled, "it's such a stupid way to die."

Peter sighed. "I know, Luke. I know." He patted him more in consolation.

"Well, I guess we should move onto the next movie?" Miles said, holding the worst Blu-Ray cover Peter had ever seen. There were anime eyes. On real-life people.

And that's when the alarm blared.

 _'Oh, thank you_.' Peter thought to the universe as the room scrambled to collect their gear. The tension broke in a squeak of feet and rustling bodies. He went to stand but Amadeus was pushing him back down — and now the youngest was bullying him. How far had he fallen?

"You're still grounded, remember? No crime-fighting for you."

"Yeah, Spidey," Flash said as Venom encased him head to toe in familiar black, "Chillax. We have this handled."

Peter grumbled as he sat still. He grabbed his bowl of popcorn but pushed it away when he spotted the speckles of dry blood on the kernels. He raised his head as MJ transformed into the Carnage Queen. "Wait, you're going out too?"

"Didn't they tell you? I'm your temp."

"What? How — ?" He let out a high, offended nose, but she shrugged her shoulders at him and left with the rest. "Do you even have the right training?" He called after her.

"I'm better than you and you know it," she shouted back before her and the others' footsteps faded. Someone had flicked on the lights in the chaos, and in the bright fluorescence laid upturned bowls of popcorn, wasted kernels, and half-emptied glasses and bottles.

"Well," he sighed as he got up, "might as well clean up." He picked up his sullied popcorn bowl and began filling it with Ben's numerous sprite cans.

"Let me help," Harry said, and oh shit, Harry was still here.

"Thanks," he said and tried his hardest not to stare, but it was hard when Harry started cleaning right next to him. He swiped his tongue across his teeth and hoped there wasn't any blood on them.

"So…" Harry said in the relative quiet. The end credits were still playing, though neither of them paid it any attention.

"So?"

"So, are you gonna tell me who it is?"

Peter coughed into his elbow and thumped his chest. He tried to blink the panic out of his eyes. "Who?"

"You know who. I can't believe you never — no, scratch that. I _can_ believe you never told me, but it's out in the open now, right? Come on, don't make me guess."

"It's," ~~you~~ , "embarrassing. Look, it's not that big of a deal."

"You have a life-threatening disease that you could die from at any moment and you've had it for four years."

"Well, when you put it like that."

"And what's that about? Four years? I can't believe I had to learn from Danny learning from Flash that you've been sick for four years."

Danny. For a guy of a few words, has got a surprisingly enormous mouth.

"Is it MJ?"

"What?" Peter made a beeline for the trash can. "No. You know me and MJ are just friends."

"Is it Flash? Is that why he knows?"

Peter made a face. They might have put aside their differences as friends and teammates, but more than that? He went to the sink and dumped the glasses. "Of course not."

"Sam?"

"Why does everyone think I'm in love with Sam?"

"Agent Coulson?"

Peter mimed gagging and whipped his head towards Harry. "Absolutely not! Why would you even say that?"

Harry shrugged, and his smile fell to the wayside. "Then why won't you tell me? I thought we were friends. I can get the Spider-Man thing: secret identity; didn't want us hurt — but this isn't that. This isn't about us. This is about you. What's going on that's so big in your head you can't tell your best friend?"

Peter closed his eyes. Flowers bloomed and he had to force himself not to gag. "I'll tell you... when I'm ready, and not a second sooner. I — We are friends, but it's — it's personal, Harry."

When he opened his eyes, there was a resigned look on his friend's face. He hated how disappointed he looked, with the soft frown and the solemn eyes, but Harry was a wonderful sport and nodded his head.

"I get it." A slight smile flitted across his face, as brief and as precious as a firefly darting past. "Guess this would be an awful time to invite you to dinner, huh?"

This time Peter gagged. He rushed to the sink and yanked the water on. Harry hurried to clarify. "N- not like that. I understand it's last minute, and I told Dad it was bad timing but said he wanted to see you and — Oh wow, that's a lot of petals. Are you... okay?"

Peter turned the water off and grabbed a towel. He dabbed his face, then grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. The chill was soothing on his sore throat and he didn't stop drinking until he'd finished the entire thing. "When?"

"Huh?"

"When should I show up for dinner?"

"Oh, next Sunday. There'll be," Harry was shaking; his pallor waxen. His breathing hitched, and he continued, "We'll have cheesecake."

Next Saturday. The cure would finish synthesizing that Friday. "Yeah, I can make it."

"Are you sure?" Harry said, his tone full of regret, "Because if not — "

Instead of answering, he waved Harry off. "The medicine will have finished by then. I can make it."

.

Dinner with Norman was always... interesting. More so, when he jumped to the point.

"So," Norman said twenty minutes into their dinner, "I hear from my son you've got a minor flower problem."

" _Dad_."

"What? It's not every day you hear someone's cured a disease thought incurable without surgery. I'm curious."

"Yeah, but you don't have to jump right into it. Pete, I'm sorry. I — I know I shouldn't have told, but Dad asked how you were doing and it kind of," he winced, "slipped out and — "

"It's fine," Peter said, and it was fine. A little awkward, knowing your crush's dad knows there's something up, but the Osborn bickering routine was the dependable noise that he could sleep to. "I'm guessing the dinner invitation wasn't to catch up on daily life?"

Norman laughed, "You know me well. I was hoping you'd let me look at the formula you've cooked up. As you must know, rare as Hanahaki is, it is terminal if not treated. If we can make something from your formula… Well," the word choice held openness, but Norman's smile still held that shark-like glimmer, "imagine the lives we can save." Appealing to his moral senses to get a lucrative business deal. Same old Stormin' Norman.

"I'm sorry, but the formula only works because of my physiology and it's not a permanent solution. I have to keep taking it every spring. So it's not really a 'cure' as much as a deterrent."

"How peculiar," the elder Osborn said, with the slow drawl emphasis of someone deliberating something. "I'm sure we can work on it. I realize you're busy with SHIELD Academy but perhaps in the fall you can come work down in the labs?"

"Are you... offering me a job?"

"Dad," Harry groaned. "Can we not talk business during dinner?"

"It's only for a moment," Norman said to Harry. To Peter, he said, "I'm offering you much more than that. How does being Head Researcher of the Pulmoflorosis Research Department sound?"

"Head Researcher?"

"Why not? It's your formula. And I understand that you'd want it to be safe for the non-half-spider persons of the world. What better way to ensure safety than joining the R&D team?"

A chair scraped against the floor. Harry stood, his plate still mostly untouched. "Excuse me, I need to use the restroom. Feel free to talk about mergers and bond stocks all you want while I'm gone."

Ouch. Was he mad? "I promise we'll stop talking about it when you come back," Peter called after him. Harry didn't respond. He exited the room without a sound.

Norman didn't seem too concerned. "Don't worry about him. He's only mad I keep bringing up your pulmoflorosis."

Huh?

"Huh?"

"Nevermind that, while he's gone, we might as well get most of the business settled."

So they talked schedules and payments and trial tests and chemicals they could use that could make the medicine affordable for the market and then Norman leaned forward and asked, "Excuse me if this is crossing personal boundaries, but I was wondering, why didn't you get the surgery? Surely, a one and done removal would be the easier answer than creating a formula from scratch and recreating it annually. Is it a matter of money? Because if you need financial aid, I would be happy to provide — "

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Peter reassured. "I've looked it up, and the surgery is affordable if you schedule it early enough and find the right hospital. I could go under the knife if I wanted to. No, it's…" his fork scraped against the plate as he pushed his fancy lasagna around, "Well, you know the side effects of the surgery."

"I'm afraid I don't. Pulmoflorosis is a rare disease, after all." He sounded amused, Peter thought. To his credit, he was right. Contrary to what the soaps said, there weren't that many actual cases of Hanahaki worldwide. Trust Peter to get it, despite the odds.

"Well, when you go through the surgery, the feelings… Once they remove the flowers, they're gone. Any love you feel or felt for the person disappears. It's..." God, was he doing this? Was he confessing his feelings to Norman Osborn — for his own son? He grabbed his glass of water and took a sip.

"I didn't want that," he admitted when Norman kept silent, "I enjoy loving them. I like looking at them and knowing that, even if they don't know it, that someone loves them. He- He deserves love. I…"

Ab _ort. Abort_. Too much information. Did he just say 'he' out loud?

He ducked his head and gripped his glass as if it was a lifeline. The tips of his ears were burning again. He took another, longer sip. "So yeah, I didn't want to do the surgery because I didn't want to stop loving them, and so I made the medicine and take it every spring."

"And does it work as you intended? You still have feelings for them even when the symptoms are dormant?"

"Yeah."

Norman's mouth curled into a smile. Peter felt as if his spider-sense should've been blaring, but it was distressingly silent. "How clever. And if I may say, whoever is the other half of this equation is very lucky to have your attention. Wouldn't you agree, Harry?"

Oh Spider-sense, why have thou failed thus? Peter turned in his seat to find Harry behind him. How long had he been there? Had he been standing there the whole time while he was babbling on? Harry took his seat adjacent with a thoughtful frown and didn't respond.

"Harry, are you listening?"

"Huh?"

"I asked, 'Don't you think whoever this _mysterious_ — " Oh god he knew. Peter couldn't tell if he was being paranoid or what, but his gut told him Norman knew, because why else would he say it like that? " — person is, they're very lucky?'"

"Oh yeah," Harry said, still frowning — and what did that mean? Was he mad they were still talking pulmoflorosis? Did he have a bad restroom break? "Yeah, they're super lucky."

.

"Hey, Pete?"

"Yeah?"

Peter was half-slumped and drowsy on the Osborn couch, stuffed with cheesecakes and lasagna, and enough nervous sips of water his belly felt water-logged. Norman had called an early night because of a morning board meeting and so it was them. Alone. On the Osborn couch.

He should've never accepted this invitation.

"So stop me right now if I sound — I don't know — full of myself or something, but are you... in love with me?"

Peter went over his options carefully. He could lie, or say nothing and swing away. Escape and move to Alaska. He glanced at Harry, who was messing with his hair and his sleeves and the collar of his shirt.

"I mean," Harry said, straightening his cuffs, "you said it wasn't MJ or Flash, and it's someone you've known since at least 10th grade, and pear blossoms mean 'lasting friendship', and you don't have any other close friends, and I overheard your conversation and you said 'he', and so… I guess…"

"Well," he said, his brain thinking of excuses: Tom from math class, someone he met online, a guy from Canada; before he tossed them away — because yeah, he's drowsy and tired and this has gone long enough. "I'm not not not not not _not_ in love with — "

"Peter."

Gathering his courage — come on, you fight super-villains in spandex in your free time, you can do this — Peter straightened in his seat. The jig was up. Gotta not be a total coward. "Yeah," he said, locking eyes with Harry. "I love you. I am in love with you."

An explosive sigh escaped Harry's lips as he fell back, looking like someone punched him in the gut. "Oh." He said. He ran his hand up his face until his hand was gripping his hair like he was two seconds away from pulling it out. Not good.

"Yeah," Peter winced. And because it was him, and because he couldn't help himself in this very stressful situation, he did jazz hands and said, " _Surprise_!"

"God, you're insufferable," Harry said but his hand fell to his lap and he was laughing, so that was good, right?

"I know it's weird — wow, I'm sorry, this must be so weird for you — but compared to everything else, it isn't that weird, is it? Okay, so it's still weird, but — "

"Did you mean it?"

He paused. Harry was staring at him with star-filled eyes, and it was a good thing he'd taken his medicine or else he'd be vomiting flowers from that look alone. It was then he realized he had no idea what would happen from then on. He'd performed Amadeus' little hypothetical experiment. He confessed and he wasn't collapsing into a blood-flower heap, but what did that mean for next spring? Would the flowers disappear? Would he deteriorate faster? Could he be choking on asters tomorrow?

The answer was a mystery.

"Pete?"

He blinked, and he was breathing and his lungs were as clear as they ever were during the other seasons. "Yeah?" He asked. "Sorry, what was the question?"

"What you told my dad — about _liking_ loving me? Did you mean it?"

He swallowed and nodded. "Yeah, I meant it. I… This'll sound weird but I enjoy loving you, Harry. I really, really do. You're easy to love."

A blush overtook Harry's face and Peter had to refrain from reaching out and brushing his knuckles against his cheeks. No need to make this any more awkward.

"Was it worth it; keeping your feelings even though you had Hanahaki?"

"Well, the throwing up blood part sucked and so did the hard-to-breathe thing, but yeah, it was worth it." What he wouldn't give for the sudden and enviable power to turn invisible. Or for the lights to cut out so Harry could stop staring. He turned and began picking at the stray fuzz on the arm of the sofa.

Which was when Harry decided to bump his nose against his cheek.

"Uh?" Peter said because Harry was right there and his breath was hitting his face and too close, _waytooclose_ — What was he doing so close? And then a kiss landed on his brow, his jaw, his cheek and —

"Stop. Just stop. Harry, I don't want you to kiss me because you think you owe me. Please, trust me, that's the last thing I want.

"Pete," Harry said, and now they were holding hands. Since when were they holding hands? "I'm not kissing you because I think I owe you. I'm kissing you because when I heard you had Hanahaki, my first thought was ' _Oh no, I missed my chance_ ,' when I didn't even realize there was a chance to miss or that I would want to take it. Trust me, kissing you for pity or to pay some debt is the last thing I want."

Peter stared at Harry's hands. They were broad hands, wider than they had any right to be considering Harry didn't split his knuckles punching bad guys, and they were warm to the touch. Peter took his hands, rubbed circles on his palm, and then burst out laughing.

"God," Harry choked, between his own fits of laughter — his dumb, handsome face showcasing his dumb, handsome teeth and teeth shouldn't be handsome, but he pulled it off anyway. "This is so corny. I hate you for making us a quintessential soaps couple. You really are a dumb rom-com protagonist, aren't you?

"What does that even mean?"

"Pete, we could've had this settled since sophomore year, but you had to be angsty — "

"I was not _angsty_ , I was being practical — "

"Four years. A disease that could become terminal. How is that practical?"

"Oh, shut up and kiss me."

.

When next spring came, Peter's lungs were flower-free.

**Author's Note:**

> \- pulmoflorosis is made up. Pulmo means "lungs" in latin, florem means "flowers", and osis means "to be affected with something". So I smushed them altogether for Hanahaki's "scientific" name.
> 
> \- "He pinched the innocuous-looking petal from his mouth; the color a soft, baby pink." [Camelias, Pink camellias symbolize a longing for someone and is given to someone who is missed]
> 
> \- ""Hanahaki disease," Connors knelt until he was eye level with the purple and white petal dotted with bits of red. "Coughing blood, obstructions in your lungs — Peter, this is very serious. You might be on late-stage two or early stage three of — " [Lilacs, first love]
> 
> -"Sorry," Danny said, pointing to the nearby napkin overflowing with flower petals. "I noticed; those are aster petals. Red ones, like the ones there, mean 'undying love,' and those little white ones are pear blossoms. They mean lasting friendship." [Self explanatory]
> 
> \-----  
> I'm a sucker for hanahaki fics. Hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading!


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